


Real Big Subtle Things

by Hopefullyamayzing



Category: Magisterium Series - Holly Black & Cassandra Clare
Genre: 'maybe' was also a contender, CALRON!!!!!!!!!!, F/F, Just you wait - Freeform, M/M, Telia is important, Who Knows?, a title that I made up out of nowhere but sounds deep, an awful dream becomes even worse, chapter titles from the song 'We Are Young' because why not and it sorta fit my purpose, too - Freeform, very important, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-07-29 17:31:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7693216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopefullyamayzing/pseuds/Hopefullyamayzing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn’t a dream. But it wasn’t reality. Maybe. He could never be sure.<br/>Call inevitably found himself in this place, a dream that had all of the feelings, choices, and pain of reality, every night. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And You Feel Like Falling Down

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter titles are going to be from the song 'We Are Young' (because, why not? No matter that it's like five years old) (it works perfectly). I just got the song stuck in my head as I was writing this- so- that's that. I really hope you like it!

Call stood, frozen, as Master Joseph grinned a grin that was as far from a kindly smile as you could get. Evil. “Are you sure?” he asked, not saying anything else, but Call knew what he meant. Are you sure that you shall not join me tonight in your former empire? We could rebuild again. A phoenix from the ash. Master. He might not have been standing at all. Call might have been kneeling, or fallen down. He didn’t know. The question was one of the usual ones. But it apparently pleased Joseph to let Call 'choose'. Joseph was in control. He only added ‘Master’ to things to mock him. From Joseph, your servant. Master.

Yeah, right. This wasn’t a dream. But it wasn’t reality. Maybe. He could never be sure. Call inevitably found himself in this place, a dream that had all of the feelings, choices, and pain of reality, every night. No matter his three triple espressos and nightly vigil. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t let your head slump forward. Don’t let Joseph take you. Failing at all of that. Always. Each night and every night Call was sucked to this dream- reality. He was exhausted to the point of not even trying to avoid them. Joseph let him have maybe an hour of sleep for every six hours in that other place. That other place that Joseph had complete control over. Call didn’t. Maybe as Constantine he would be able to…. No. Call couldn’t think like that. Doing that would be doing just as Joseph wanted. A greasy, dirty river wearing down gray rock. Call would be swept away in the current. Sediment. 

He hadn’t really told Aaron and Tamara about the dreams. What would be the point? They couldn’t do anything about it. It might just worry them. The dream- realities had been going on for maybe a week. It felt longer. There wasn’t any real reason he had kept it from them- especially with the promise not to tell the truth he had made that seemed so long ago, but was actually Copper Year- but, still. They probably, ostensibly, hadn’t noticed. Maybe hadn’t cared. It had been a busy week, made worse by all this, all the exhaustion. All the Gold Year tests he was sure he had failed. Collegium examiners that no matter his scores, needed, absolutely needed to have the Makaris in their school, training to become EVEN BETTER. Masters, even. He could care less. All he really wanted was twelve solid hours of sleep. Not three years of nothing but Makar training, without Master Rufus. Some random teacher who didn’t really get it. Who picked Call and Aaron for all the wrong reasons. Power. Politics. The Makaris dependent on that teacher. That feeling of triumph when they struck a blow against Joseph, even when that new ‘teacher’ really didn’t have anything to do with it. When they really didn’t understand what the three of them had been through. Probably now two of them. Tamara’s parents might be forced to separate her from them. ‘Makar training.’ No matter how regretful they would be to have their youngest daughter separated from the glory of the Makaris. ‘Makar training.’ And just that. Nothing else. Call somehow had a feeling that Master Rufus did. Constantine. His soul. Whose soul. The reason he had two Makars in his group, not just one. The reason one of his students had the exact same eyes and temperament of another former student. 

Constantine.

Call usually tried to avoid talking with Joseph during the dream- reality. Or at all. One, because it usually wasn’t worth it, because Joseph wouldn’t let him talk unless he was being asked 'the Constantine question', and two, because whenever he did say something, either defiantly or not, Joseph would exclaim something about how Constantine always said that. He always used to say that, getting frustrated at some failed experiment. You can’t change your nature. The time is much closer than you think. Call, Callum, whatever silly name you insist on me calling you, know that it doesn’t really matter. You are Constantine. You cannot avoid the inevitability of your soul. 

But Call did try to put on an aura of (faked) boredom. He was terrified. For real. Maybe. But he hoped that if Call acted like he was bored, the entire dream-reality might end a little sooner. Or Joseph might decide that he needed a new way to motivate Call.  
It didn’t really appeared to have worked.  
Besides, if Joseph decided he needed a new motivation, it would probably be way more awful than this. So maybe in the long run, it was a good thing. Maybe. Call couldn’t be sure. Master Joseph stared at Call, probably reading his expressions like an open book. He seemed to be the only person he knew who could do that. Anymore. And he didn’t like it. At all. 

“Right now, you’re sure,” Joseph decided to himself. “Very soon…..” He left the sentence hanging. Which was almost worse. Around the edges of the dream- reality, there were always Chaos- ridden somethings. Even, to what probably would have been to Drew’s perverse delight, ponies. The few times that he had tried, Call couldn’t control them. Of course. Which annoyed and relieved him in equal amounts. They were all Joseph’s. Like everything else in the blank white background of the dream- reality. Except for maybe Call. Maybe. He didn’t really know anymore. Joseph beckoned over to one of the humans and muttered something in its ear that Call couldn’t hear, no matter how much he strained to listen. The Chaos- ridden immediately dissipated into the mist of the dream- reality. Joseph grinned another nasty smile worthy of a true Evil Overlord. “You’ll just have to wait a moment. Don’t worry, Master! Our friend will be back.”

And Call’s vision turned black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blacker than chaos. The moment of darkness could have been a second or a hour. Joseph might've made time fluid right then, probably just because he wanted to mess with him. Call’s consciousness or subconscious or whatever (he didn’t particularly care what it was called) was active when he was in the dream- reality remained aware the entire time, though Call didn’t know how long that was, and no matter how much he tried, Call couldn’t wake up or even fall back into ‘unconsciousness.’ He was stuck. No refresh button or ice bucket on his face could get Call out. He couldn’t even see his face. Hands, feet, body….. Nothing. Just the roiling blackness. Just a disembodied trio of 'eyes,' thoughts, and soul. What the hell was Joseph doing right now? Call already knew the answer: something awful. Master Joseph would do anything to get Call on his side. To get Constantine on his side. He didn’t care about the cost. Would the price be paid in blood? What if he did decide he needed a new motivation, despite Call’s (somewhat) hopes to the contrary? What if it was some new, agonizing, torture? 

It had already. 

He did.

And of course it was something agonizing. What did Call expect? He hadn’t been labeled as a cynic by almost everybody who knew him, at one time or another, for nothing. The agony was already imagined. 

But it was even worse than that.  
Worse than he could have imagined.  
Impossible to have imagined.  
Ever. 

The darkness cleared. 

Joseph was standing not-quite-so-casually, clutching the Alkahest in one hand, an inch from-

near two Chaos- ridden, with brutal force, holding- 

Aaron.  
And Call’s vision tunneled.

Was this an illusion? Maybe.  
But maybe it wasn’t. Call couldn’t really tell.  
Or maybe not. He was wearing the same old ratty sweatpants and t- shirt he usually always wore to bed; no matter that if he had asked any one of the rich mage families, like the Rajavis’ or the Tarquin, they would’ve had  
Aaron  
outfitted in monogrammed silk pajamas, dressing gown (who even wore those anymore? Weird old Brits?), and hand- stitched, made in Italy, (or whatever crap) fluffy bunny slippers in an instant. He had the exact same number of freckles on his cheeks (eighteen), and his duck-fluff blond hair was sticking up (as usual), but it was more than that. Call was close enough that he could’ve brushed his fingers against  
Aaron’s  
cheek, if Joseph would have let him move. Close enough to look into his eyes, that were sometimes as light as a spring oak leaf being shined through the sunlight and other times were as dark as an evergreen forest in the mist. The eyes are the windows to the soul. His eyes held surprise and pain in them. Terror. Call would make Joseph pay for that. But there was absolutely no doubt at all, as much as Call could be sure of anything now. The surest thing he knew right now, at that moment, was that these eyes were true windows to  
Aaron  
Stewart’s 

 

soul. His counterweight. He was  
Aaron’s counterweight. He is the light and I am the dark. Each other balanced the other out. The light needs the dark to burn away, otherwise it is useless. Has no point or balance. No counterweight. The counterweight of the void is the soul. Call knew the feeling of  
Aaron’s  
soul intimately. Didn’t he? A strange fluttering increased in his stomach as he stared at Aaron. He might've been much more than a counterweight and best friend to Call. Right? So much more. Maybe. 

And so shattered Call’s last, desperate hope of  
‘Aaron’  
being an illusion. He was here. In the dream- reality. Like Call. Call had no idea if his body disappeared when he went to the dream- reality, (and didn’t especially want to know), but he somehow sensed that  
Aaron  
was more stuck here than he was. Stolen. Makarnapped. Call did try to reach out, to graze  
Aaron’s  
sun-freckled cheek with his fingers or to muss up his duck- fluff hair- he didn’t know what he had been about to do. But he couldn't. Joseph prevented him from moving at all.  
Aaron’s  
expression was now unbelievably sad, like he was being prevented, just like Call, from speaking. But before he could do any of that, before they could silently have a conversation, maybe just through the touch of a hand, Joseph extended his left pinky and shoved Call back, magically, thirty feet, maybe, and grinned gloatingly. He had seen it all. Noticed it all. “Have you changed your mind yet? Master? Maybe we could do a trade. Your TRUE enemy for Death’s Enemy. You.”  
The  
Alkahest  
moved  
even  
closer  
to

Aaron’s 

heart.  
Half a centimeter from his firm left pectoral.  
Half a centimeter from killing  
Aaron.  
Half a centimeter from sucking out his chaos and leaving  
Aaron's  
hard, beautiful, hard, muscular body a withered husk.  
Even in a reality-dream. It would be real.  
Final.  
Maybe.  
But he was pretty sure about that.  
About death.  
Half a centimeter from destroying Call's counterweight.  
His balance.  
His-  
Call didn't know. He wasn't sure. Maybe.  
Call saw that Joseph had looked back at his ‘Master’ and wondered if he noticed the excess water that had welled up in Call’s right eye as he had tried to reach out to touch Aaron’s  
cheek. Definitely not a tear. That would be ridiculous. Just some extra fluids. Yeah. Maybe. He couldn’t be sure. 

And then he might have been falling….


	2. Holes In My Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron wasn't there.
> 
> In which Call and Tamara freak out together. Also talk.   
> A lot.  
> Maybe.   
> Call couldn't be sure. 
> 
> And Havoc happily takes a nap.   
> Whee!   
> (Nope. Actually, this is dark stuff)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to bring it all in before TBK!   
> (Sure. As if.)   
> Of course. I get the idea for it barely a month before the next book after waiting a year. Bronze Key is probably going to rock our worlds and I might not even want to finish this. I better!  
> (Got at least 9 chapters planned. Not gonna happen. :D)   
> But I can try.   
> (Especially since I don't even have the next chapter finished yet)  
> Oh, well.   
> I really hope you like this chapter!

“Call! Callum William Hunt, you lazy bum, wake up! It’s like noon already! Jeez, come on! You and Aaron have been sooo lazy lately! Get UP!” At that, a particularly fierce poke. A girl’s voice. Tamara. Ugh. Call didn’t really want to open his eyes. It had been so long since he had slept well…. And then he remembered why he hadn’t. the dream came back to him. All of it.“I let you and Aaron sleep for ages, but you had better wake up NOW! Aaron’s next! I’m going in his room after this! And I walked Havoc for you, you’re welcome!”   
Hearing his name, Havoc barked.

Aaron.

The thought- the thought of him really woke Call up.  
Woke him up like a triple shot of espresso with an entire six-pack of Five Hour Energy (that stuff was nasty; Call had smuggled some back from Asheville after winter break in Copper Year to see if it could be a reasonable alternative to coffee- after he had had fallen asleep twice in really boring Assembly meetings, because he had stayed up past midnight watching some of Alex’s new versions of ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ and ‘The Force Awakens,’ and Tamara, Jasper, and Aaron had ALL found it funnier to let Call snore and drool on the huge wood table; that was the reason after spring break, he had managed to cart an Alastair-tinkered with coffeemaker that could run on fire magic) forced down Call’s throat. 

He met her eyes. Tamara saw Call’s expression. It was probably grim and full of thoughts of Master Joseph, Constantine, and the Chaos- ridden. She started to say something, but apparently thought better of it and broke off. He hadn’t really been honest with Tamara or Aaron the last week or so, but she could still obviously tell when something was wrong when he let her to. Not really like Copper Year, then. Control your emotions. Don’t let them see. Don’t let your face be like an open book. Because that’s really not helpful to anybody right now. Not helpful to Aaron. Of course, when he could use a poker face the most, against Master Joseph, his emotions couldn’t be more obvious. Of course. 

And something was definitely wrong. “Have you seen Aaron at all today?” She shook her head. Call started to elaborate on the question, but Tamara was already running out his door, her two long braids swishing down her back. He swung his legs over the bed, onto the floor, wincing slightly at his left leg hit the ground, and, Havoc trotting behind Call, followed her. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wasn’t there.   
His bed had been slept in, but the comforter hadn’t been pulled back to suggest he had carelessly gotten out of bed or was forced out. Even though the blankets could have been easily straightened over by anybody, it might still count as evidence, according to Tamara. Who apparently over spring break two months ago, when she had insisted the three of them go on a camping trip to the Porcupine Mountains of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and had ‘borrowed’ her parents’ massive Airbus A380 jet, had binge watched a gazillion of CSI and crime shows on the flight there, instead of sleeping like normal people (A.K.A Aaron and Call- if seventeen year old American mage Makars/counterweights, with one having the soul of the Enemy of Death, and the other basically the Assembly’s champion and the nicest person who ever lived, could be counted as normal) in the huge cabin. And now Tamara apparently thought she was a detective. Not that Call was complaining. Aaron needed all the help he could get, as fast as they could get it. Tamara’s ‘CSI detective’ skills was better than nothing. Aaron always laid out his clothes the night before, even if it was a weekend, and the holey jeans, ancient t- shirt, wristband with a gazillion stones, and even socks were draped over the top of the long dresser. He hadn’t gotten dressed. Call already knew that he wasn’t going to be there, from the dream. But the physical evidence was irrefutable.   
Just as Call suspected.   
Master Joseph had said something in Copper Year, in Call’s first dream-reality: If you agree, I can take you tonight. Obviously, Aaron hadn’t been given that choice. Call was still getting that choice. But he wondered how much longer it would be before he didn’t. Before Joseph just took him. 

“One thing,” Tamara had obviously been following a much different train of thought as they surveyed the room. “Why the hell didn’t you tell us about these dreams? You say that they have been going on every night for weeks! Yeah, Aaron and I knew that you have the occasional one, and I think- I hope that you have been good about telling us those ones, for your sake, but- every night now? What did you think to win by not telling us? Your pride? Our friendship?”   
She was maybe an half-inch shorter than Call, really tall for a girl, even though Call was pretty short, and got up right in his face. Her furious brown eyes burned right into him. Obviously she was still hung up over the dream-thing. For good reason. Call didn’t know exactly why he hadn’t told them, but- “Well, Callum Hunt, I have something to tell you. You may have barely gotten by for twelve years with only your dad as a friend, but Aaron and I and Celia and even, God forbid, Jasper, are your friends, and have been for five years, so you had better start treating us like it! And when you promised to not lie to me and Aaron, lying by omission was definitely included in that deal!” 

She stalked out of Aaron’s empty room without another word.   
Call felt frozen. He stared after her, like whatever magic Joseph used in the dream-reality was affecting him in ‘real life.’ But this was so much worse. At least, in the dreams, Call knew what to do if he could: Resist Joseph. Kill him if he could. Don’t be evil. Don’t be Constantine. Easy choices, compared to this. But how could he argue with Tamara over something he knew was wrong? That he had done anyway? Especially when he didn’t have any clear reason, especially to himself, for doing so? When he really didn’t have any reason at all? But there was one thing he could do. 

Call could apologize.

He turned, giving Aaron’s cavernously empty, silent, shadowy, room one last sad stare, and limped painfully out, crossing to sit next to Tamara on the couch. She ignored him, and the only sign that she’d noticed him/that Call had ever existed in the universe at any time was that she turned away and found the opposite wall, lightly crusted with minerals and a small, magic- powered kitchenette (installed by Aaron in Silver Year, finally breaking and yelling that he was tired of lichen) extremely fascinating.   
“Tamara….” She went mysteriously deaf. This was going to be hard.   
Well, duh.   
“I’m really, really, really sorry about not telling you and Aaron about the dreams,” he rushed out. Her eyes slowly flickered back toward him- not her head. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you before, except that- I don’t know,” Wow. He was even worse at explaining than he thought. Well, can’t stop now. “I guess what I am trying to say is that I’ll never hide things from you again,” Call saw her frown, imperceptibly, and hurriedly continued, ”You probably won’t believe me. I know I promised the same thing in Copper Year- and here I am, apologizing about breaking that promise. You probably shouldn’t believe me, if all of what Master Joseph spews about Constantine is going to hold true. This is all my fault. My fault that the Cold Massacre happened. My fault a thousand people are dead. Dead! My fault Aaron- Aaron is gone. But I promise, that as long as I stay Call, or me, or whatever, because I realize that that makes me sound that I can’t control Constantine’s choices, because I should, I should take responsibility for my choices, that I won’t lie to you. Ever again.” 

All was quiet. Call stared at the rocky floor. He realized he was still in the sweatpants and t-shirt he wore to ‘sleep.’ Even Havoc, probably picking up on Call’s emotions, (but hopefully not), plopped down on the floor and took a nap. Call didn’t want to break the silence, didn’t want to maybe lose one of the only friends he had left. Was she really that mad? Tamara got scary when she was angry, at first a red-hot temper that hardened into a steely calm that was almost worse than all of the fire. 

And then Tamara turned around, fast as a Chaos- ridden, and punched him in the arm.   
“OW!” Call yelped in surprise. It hurt. “What was that for?” 

“Because, you idiot, didn’t I just tell you I was your friend? That we all are your friends? Yeah, I was mad about you not telling me and Aaron about the dreams. Yeah, you definitely deserved that punch, because I don’t think you were listening when I gave that whole speech about being your stupid friend. Maybe it will knock some sense into you.” She started to grin, but caught herself hastily- probably remembering Aaron. That while Tamara was giving a ‘friendship talk,’ he might be being tortured by Master Joseph. In pain. The thought was agonizing Call, too. She shifted slightly. “Well, I will be your friend, if we all get through this. If. “ 

She paused and stood up. Started to pace. Call watched her start to think. Start to plan. For Aaron. “How are we going to explain away his absence?” His. She might have been just using a pronoun. But Call wondered if saying Aaron’s name was too hard, now. Like it had just sunk in. Which it shouldn’t have. they were going to bring him back. they were. He had to.“We can hole up in here, in our room, for the rest of the day, and maybe tomorrow, because most people know about that kitchen Aaron put in, and figure we are just being reeeal lazy on a weekend. But on Monday, if we’re lucky and even get to Monday without people wondering where he is, we’re-”

“But on Monday, we’re screwed,” Call offered. Tamara nodded, frowning. 

“There’s no easy way to explain it to the Assembly. The truth would, obviously, get you tried unfairly and executed as an enemy, (sorry, bad pun), of the Assembly, if not Alastair too, and it really doesn’t make sense at all if we leave out the whole you-being-Constantine thing. I think maybe we could concoct some sort of story, but the Assembly is usually really good about picking out liars and omissions, and in the end it really wouldn’t do any good, just waste more time looking for Aaron, and get all of us killed. Including Havoc.” She hesitated, then said,” Actually, after you, Havoc would probably be the first person, thing-”

“Wolf,” Call muttered. She gave him a dirty look. Not helping. 

“-to be executed by the Assembly.” Yeah. She was definitely right. ‘Accomplices,’ like Alastair, Aaron, Tamara, and Jasper, who had known about the whole thing and not told the Assembly, might, might, get off on a lighter charge, but the huge, scary, probably rabid Chaos- ridden wolf with the hellish multicolored coruscating eyes that was the ‘little pet’ of the Enemy of Death, and seemed to obey him without question, would not get a chance. Especially since he couldn’t speak for himself. None.

Man, she was cheerful, Tamara. Alastair… Call didn’t know really what to think of his ‘father.’ On one hand, (or soul, should he say), Alastair was his pretty awesome dad, even though he knew that, however much he tried not to, Alastair might always subconsciously be looking for signs of Constantine in him, but on another- Alastair was a best friend, almost a brother. Almost Jericho. Which wasn’t weird at all. But the mention of Alastair did give him an idea.

“At least Master Rufus, defintely, will notice on Monday, when he isn’t there. And then we’ll have to explain to the Assembly, which, as I just said, is not a great idea. We need backup. Just the two of us aren’t going to be able to pull any excuse off. An outside influence,” Tamara continued.

She frowned even more, and stopped her pacing in front of the couch. Snapped her fingers in Call’s face. “What?” he asked, slightly annoyed. 

“I’m judging that by the fact that you’ve spent the last five minutes mentally levitating out in space that you have an idea?” Tamara shook her head, two long braids whipping around. “No, scratch that, I’m not judging. I’m hoping.”

“Oh- um, what? Never mind,” Call muttered, noticing her exasperation. “I do, actually.”

“Yeah? Well, pray tell.” She studied his expression more closely. Havoc woke with a snort. Tamara’s eyes narrowed. “Wait-” she hesitated. “You aren’t seriously going to suggest that you go with Joseph, and exchange yourself for Aaron? No.” She said, with extreme emphasis. That had actually been Call’s idea, and he shrugged, as if to say, ‘you have a reason? Or, better yet, an idea?’

Apparently, she did have a reason. Or a few. Which was good. Really good. It wasn’t like Call loved the Constantine-exchange idea, much, either.  
“As much as I hate to admit it,” Tamara rolled her eyes, and started pacing again,” you two are like the brothers I never had. Annoying, crazy, and impossibly good/creepily, not-your-fault evil, Makari brothers, sometimes, but losing either of you is unacceptable.” She started pacing even faster, which started to bug Call. Maybe Constantine had been OCD. “Well, unfortunately, what seems to be the ‘happy version’ of events could be if you refuse to go with Joseph, and in repercussion, Aaron dies for it. It’s gonna be awful, and all the damn people are going to hate losing the ‘nice’ Makar, and having to deal with you, instead,” Tamara said, with an almost-smile tugging one corner of her lip, but not,” but at least the Assembly’ll still have you for a Makar, grouchy as you might be, to defend against Joseph.” 

The thought of Aaron dying was so unthinkable that Call couldn't do anything but just sit there, stunned, even though he didn’t especially want to hear the ‘unhappy version,’ so Tamara continued anyway.

“But if you go off with that creepazoid ‘Master’ Joseph, and he kills Aaron anyway, either as spite, as a ‘safety precaution,’ because Aaron is dangerous to them or God forbid, to set Constantine off somehow, just somehow to send you over the edge, because, I guess, he is your counterweight.” And maybe a lot more, Tamara’s pointed look said. But don’t tell me. I don’t especially, really, want to know. Though I’ll be best woman at your wedding. And throw you a crazy party the night before. He couldn’t help it. Call blushed. Though this really wasn’t the time, he wondered about Celia. She and Tamara had held hands about a gazillion times in the Refectory and Gallery. Like she could read his thoughts, Tamara gave Call another pretty harsh look. We’re not talking about me. This is about Aaron. And you. Constantine.

“Or all three. They are all pretty good reasons.” She stopped pacing right in front of Call, completely, absolutely, serious now. “I’d bet anything that Joseph’d be hoping for a parallel with you and Aaron and with what did happen to Constantine and Jericho. Except- it might be even easier. And- if Aaron is gone, and you- you become Constantine, somehow, Joseph could easily have you crush the Assembly. They were winning, last time.”

“Except he forgot to bring a few more Chaos- ridden, and they all died in agony at the Cold Massacre. Also, my mother killed a ton of people with a weapon called ‘Peace’, and then with her dying breath, shattered my leg and tried to let the world know who I am with three words that actually summed it up pretty well. I’ll avoid doing that. Hmm… Number one on my Evil Overlord (Tamara, I should also copyright that sometime, after I complete my quest for world domination; remind me if we aren’t all dead) mental checklist: Do… not… attack… a… glacier… cave… in… South America… filled… with the helpless… unless… bringing… at least fifty… Chaos- ridden.” 

She glared at him. “That was not funny!” Tamara crossed her arms over her chest, frowning. “Not funny at all. Was it supposed to be? That shouldn’t be funny at all. Death.” 

And suddenly, Call felt like she was right. He shouldn’t be sitting here, in their warm, comfortable, rooms, in what certainly appeared to be reality, at the Magisterium, making awful jokes and showing off puns about blood and icy death and his mother and the Enemy of Death, while Aaron was most likely being tied up and tortured RIGHT NOW, experiencing real blood and tastes of icy death and never knowing his mother and all this because the Enemy of Death forced his soul on Call as a baby. 

And Call had been joking about it.  
Joking about everyone being dead.  
Joking about being evil.  
Joking about world domination and massacres in icy caves.   
Joking about his own mother hating him.

Maybe she should hate him, if he tossed death around so lightly.   
When Aaron didn’t take it lightly.  
And Aaron was-  
Gone. 

And it was all Call’s fault. 

 

All of it. 

But maybe he could try to fix it. One weeping wound at a time.   
Maybe. The blood poured out and the pain went deep.  
Call didn’t know, not anymore.  
Not with Aaron gone.  
His balance  
But he could try. 

Havoc turned over, still out, and began yipping a little bit. Call could’ve sworn he was barking in his sleep. Maybe having a dream of eating squirrels and fetching large fallen tree boughs? 

“Actually, Tamara,” he said slowly. “I might have another idea." Space does have its benefits. "Why don’t we steal somebody's tornado- um, ether phone, and call Alastair? Then- maybe we probably could figure it out from there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! (?)  
> Every time I check my email and see that someone has given me kudos, or even better, a comment, I work a little harder, focus a little more. Honestly, (and I was being truthful before!), kudos, and comments especially, brighten my day! Thank you!   
> Constructive crit is much appreciated, too! 
> 
> (Also, does anybody know how to put italics on here? You can comment it or talk to me on tumblr about it) (If it involves LOTS of COMPLICATED coding or whatever, don't bother, just tell me, [that I'm crazy] but if not- I would defintely appreciate the help) (Because all the things I write are even worse without it)
> 
> Oh yeah- you can find me on tumblr @amayzingmagic36 :D! Always love to talk about anything Magisterium related!


	3. World On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whispers that the dark was his true self.   
> Sometimes they would whisper it down his neck.  
> Other times they would scream it into his ears.   
> White-hot, blinding pain.  
> And the darkness closed in again. 
> 
> Don't call in the angst patrol, because I'm gonna get arrested.

Maybe his sleep didn’t come as easily now as it had- well, never.  
But it always was harder now. Much harder.   
Maybe his nightmares were as awful as they always had been, always are, and always will be.   
Always worse every night. Maybe.   
But that they got worse on a steady incline was one of the things he was sure of.  
Maybe.  
Maybe visions of pain and agony and the Chaos- ridden and the Alkahest a beat from his heart and of a horror- struck, disgusted, Call were some of the usual, reliable scenes he could count on for the darkness to provide him in the hours of agony known by most people as ‘sleep.’   
Maybe it was just ‘sleep.’ And dreams.  
Nightmares. 

But maybe what he was seeing now was different.  
Maybe it was ‘real.’  
More ‘real’ than usual.   
Whatever ‘usual’ was. 

He didn’t know. 

Because when the darkness cleared from his usual visions of scarlet agony, the world was changed.   
Crisper, somehow. Cleaner. High- definition flat screen compared to a gigantic chunky ‘80’s television with a accompanying VCR and cassette player.   
Living in reality and its hard, bright light that washes everything out, to his night visions of flashing, blurring, icy red scenes of demons and mortality. Pain and blows. Faster than he could blink. Awful nightmares of bruises and politics. People who don’t care, who just want to use him for their own ends. Their own gain. Weeping blood and terrible rage. 

Nightmares of Call bleeding.

Sometimes it was just a scrape. From something they were doing in lessons.

Sometimes it was a mortal blow to the heart.  
Sometimes Joseph or the Assembly did the deed.  
Sometimes Call stabbed himself. Using Miri. Peace.

Sometimes Aaron wrenched the blade from Call’s own slight grip, not caring if he was irrevocably shattering so many fragile bones.

Sometimes Aaron slowly, agonizingly, dissolved his counterweight with chaos.   
Sometimes Aaron forced Call on the ground and cut his heart out with a thousand painful slices. It always felt like Aaron was cutting his own heart out.   
But he did it anyway.   
Always Call died in a thousand ways, gasping and choking, blood draining out of his mouth and every pore in his body, in Aaron’s arms.   
Always, Aaron could not save him.   
And it was always, somehow, his fault. That, he knew. But not somehow. It was. 

Of hazy infant recollections of his parents fighting. Somehow he remembered. The nightmares remembered. Remembered his father, even though he was a toddler shoved in the ancient bassinet in the corner of the filthy trailer, hitting his mother. Her screams and cries. Bruises.   
Of his father, Aaron would realize when he was a few years older, (like five or six), getting into a drunken rage, and strangling her. To death. Aaron saw him do it. Saw her face turn blue. Remembered wondering when she would stand up again. Come play with him. Shield him from his father. She never did. Trying not to cry when he realized this. Have to be quiet and out of sight. So he won’t notice Aaron there, still in the corner, yet. His ruddy cheeks blazing against his blond hair and green eyes. He doesn’t. Yet. 

A few hours later, when he appears to be more sober, he does. But not in the worst way. No more physical pain for Aaron from his father than what his father has already caused. Aaron’s father realizes what he did. He decides to run.   
They didn’t own a car. Not enough money.   
Steal a car. Hotwire it.   
His father tried to make it an ‘educational’ moment. Trying to insanely ‘bond’ with his two year old son. So he taught Aaron to hotwire the neighbor down the street’s dilapidated Town Car. His father’s thirty minute equivalent of eighteen years of Boy Scouts and soccer teams.   
Also trying to escape the law. That was even more of a priority to his father than making up what few moments he might have left with Aaron. His life before his son’s. That’s what was really important, after killing his girlfriend. 

Aaron didn’t think that his parents ever even got married.

They succeeded in hotwiring the car. Not in escaping the law. So his father got locked away for life. And Aaron got shipped off to the foster homes. Orphanage. They don’t like to use that word. How about ‘place of waiting’ for your ‘forever home,’ Aaron? Be more cheerful. Smile a little more. Your new home is waiting. The words don’t matter. It’s just places they take him in for a week, a month, six months, a year, for the money they get from the government. Aaron knows he won’t get adopted. What few prospective parents come in don’t even consider him. Aaron knows why. There’s a darkness in him. One they pick up on. One the other kids notice. One that he was determined not to let bleed through at the Magisterium. One he think he did let slip through, all the times Aaron used chaos. Chaos wants to devour. It would devour him, if he let it.   
One he thinks might be seeded by watching his father kill his mother. One that was watered by the night. Whispering that the dark was his true self. 

Sometimes they would whisper it down his neck.  
Other times they would scream it into his ears. 

But those were, compared to this world, blurred and indistinct. Twisted memories of hazy recollections. This was crystal- clear. Which was unfortunate. It is much easier to ignore blood on the floor when the floor in question is already a mess. Aaron learned that personally, watching his parents hit each other. 

Crystal- clear, high-definition vision of Call standing about three feet away. His overgrown, messy, raven-feather hair. Sharp, hungry face. Cheekbones as high as the stars. Distinct, beautiful, horribly hollow, Constantine- gray eyes that were still undeniably Call. The only mar on his face were the gigantic, void-colored bags sitting under his long lashes. 

And awful fear, terror, and exhaustion in his eyes and brows. Pain in a curve of a lip. But even as he could see that Call was doing the same, Aaron stared hungrily into his face.   
Damn. He was good looking. 

Wait.  
Stop. 

Joseph has somehow taken Call, and Aaron, too, and he knows, can feel somehow that he’s stuck here, trapped, to this terrible merging of nightmares and ‘reality,’ and that’s what he’s thinking about? 

Oh, well… 

Aaron tried to pinch himself. Epic fail. Though that wasn’t entirely his fault, because somehow, Joseph had immobilized him. He appeared to have done the same thing to Call, too. No wonder, really. Because if he could, Aaron would’ve tackled him. No matter the cost to his own soul, he would’ve killed Joseph if he could. Rid the world of the monster that had created all the other monsters. That had- to Call...

And he bet Joseph knew that, too. So, still holding the Alkahest to Aaron’s heart like a dagger to his throat, he must have done something, because Call somehow was pushed back deeper into the mist surrounding the real-nightmare, about thirty feet, in about a second. 

Right before he had went sliding back, Aaron was sure, for a split second, that there had been a tear gleaming on Call’s cheek. Maybe. 

Call never cried. Not once. Aaron had never seen or heard him do it, even as an Iron Year missing his father, or a Bronze Year in the wake of a murder. And yes, Aaron knew that things did happen without him knowing about it… But Call did not cry. It might’ve been because in a ghost world, a different place, he had killed so many people and seen so many dead, and that now he was, even after nearly five years of friendship and having friends other than his father, still a bit of a prideful something, but- crying? That just wasn’t Call. 

But Aaron was absolutely sure he just had. Which was almost even worse. Because you could always rely on Call to at least not show it on the outside. To make a joke at the most insensitive time. And that might seem really callous (bad pun) to somebody who didn’t know him, but it seemed to be his way of being strong. Aaron had depended on that strength so many times. Moral strength- to build Aaron up. Counterweights and best friends. And willpower- to do what was right. Not become Constantine. Not fall back on the easy path. Or maybe he just had a sense of dark humor that mainly popped up at the worst of times. A definite cynicism. Though it had come in handy once or twice.   
Ahead.  
Not that Aaron would ever admit that to Call.   
If they even all got out of this.

Joseph made what sounded disturbingly like a cackle. And he ‘wanted’ Call to become the Evil Overlord in charge? Yeah, no way. Joseph was plenty evil on his own without Constantine helping. “Have you changed your mind yet? Master?” he asked Call. “Maybe we could do a trade. Your TRUE enemy for Death’s enemy. You.”

Was Joseph trying to suggest a hostage swap? Call for Aaron? Aaron’s head was spinning. Were you really a hostage if you turned yourself over? Because of what Aaron could see of Call’s face from thirty feet away, he 

was 

definitely

considering

it.

No. He couldn’t.  
And Aaron tried to shout those very words out to Call- but he forgot that Joseph had silenced both of them. No talking.  
It was wrong.   
Doing it, he would destroy the entire world.   
For Aaron.  
Aaron didn’t deserve that.  
Definitely not.  
Not with the world at risk.

And Aaron always hated being forced to take charity.  
The Rajavis, with the political power they earn by housing Aaron,  
or   
even Mr. Hunt, who seemed to do it because he was (mostly; he still seemed a bit bitter about Call’s mother, and the Assembly, for good reason. Even though Aaron knew that most of his ‘bitterness’ had been a front to stay away from the Magisterium) nice, and because Call wanted to do it and Alastair didn’t seem to want to drive another spike in between him and his son when there were so many permanent ones already,  
he didn’t like it.  
Appreciated their hospitality, of course.   
Needed it.   
Would be on the streets without it.   
But he wouldn’t have to be incumbent on somebody else, another mouth to feed, if his own parents hadn’t-   
If his own parents had been actual

parents. 

Not a girl who didn’t finish high school and ran away with an alcoholic that sunk into debt with some DC gang or something, and strangled her to death.   
And was subsequently locked up for life. 

Those weren’t parents.   
But he was their child.  
So what did that make Aaron? 

Someone dependent on other people's’ kindness.  
And he hated that.

It wasn’t pride, not really.   
Not like Call’s willingness to manage every problem by himself, not let anyone in.   
He knew he needed help, and was thankful to the people who helped him.  
Aaron was just-   
Mad at his own parents, his own father for killing his mother-  
And leaving him alone. 

So he hated the idea of Callum sacrificing himself for Aaron.   
He tried yelling again.  
But of course it didn’t work.   
Besides, Call was so stubborn that he probably wouldn’t listen anyway.   
Even if Aaron yelled it into his ears.   
Once he had made this decision, he wouldn’t budge.  
Actually, yelling it into his ears that he shouldn’t would probably harden that stupid idiot’s resolve anyway.

In the corner of his eye, Aaron noticed that the Alkahest moved even closer to his heart.   
Half a centimeter, maybe.

Maybe more. 

And Call dissolved into darkness.

Aaron might’ve, too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What could have been an eternity or a second passed in the dark.  
It cleared for a moment.

Aaron was lying on- a table? He saw a rocky cavern wall for a split second- then Joseph entered all of his vision and held out, in the palm of his bare hand what appeared to be a one ounce bar of copper. “I am going to hurt you,” he promised. Was the copper bar Alkahest related? “And I am going to show your pain to Constantine tonight. I am going to let him know how much he has hurt you. And we will do it again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. Until the day Constantine embraces his true nature.” He grinned happily. “And then I will let you go.”

He pressed the bar to Aaron’s left arm. 

The copper was agony.

Pain he had never

nobody had ever

experienced before.

He screamed and screamed silently as Joseph slowly rubbed it, up and down, a masseuse of pain, up and down, 

up and down, 

up and down,

up and down,

leaving pitch-black, bubbling burns in its wake. 

Call.

Call  
Call  
Call  
Call  
Call

IdothisforCallcallcallscreamingcallcallcallMustlethimliveifcallcallcallcallagonyscreamingpleasenoCall. 

White-hot, blinding pain.

And the darkness closed in again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No apologies for what I've done to our duck-fluff blond Superman. No excuses. It was necessary. Had to be done.  
> (Also- next chapter- as a hint I'll just say that there's a reason Cassie put a 'William' in Magisterium)
> 
> I always love talking about anything Magisterium related! You can find me at Tumblr at @amayzingmagic36.


	4. Get My Story Straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come in,” Will tried to say in a scary-Master sort of tone, but there wasn’t really much of a need.  
> He doubted it would bother the three people who walked through his door, anyway, when he saw them. 
> 
> Three of the only four of his students who were still alive.   
> When all eight of them should have been happy and alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to get as much as I can before tomorrow! (TBK)   
> As might be obvious, RBST is not gonna be canon- compliant! Especially with all the spoilers floating around. Hope you like it!

Someone knocked on Will’s office door.  
He glanced up, startled, from the ream of ‘uber-important’ Assembly paperwork and their implied Makari bungling that someone had elementaled to his desk that morning, just because they felt like it.   
On a SATURDAY.  
But Will always got up a while before dawn, anyway.   
He was never able to take any more of the nightmares past four thirty in the morning.   
Yet, he had been absolutely startled.  
And even though seventeen years had passed since the Third Mage War-   
unexpected noises, big surprises, awful nightmares,   
(even though the nightmares had stopped being any surprise)-   
any of that would make him jump.  
Put him on his guard.   
Pull the mental sword out of its sheath.  
Mentally prepare to begin drawing upon his power.  
Mentally prepare to fight.

Even a knock on his office door.  
Especially a knock on his office door.

The second worst thing he had ever learned had been precluded by a knock on his office door.   
The death of a student.  
Jericho’s death.  
All the rest, he had seen happen himself.   
All the rest, he had allowed to happen himself.   
All the rest, he had witnessed his failure himself.  
In person. 

“Come in,” Will tried to say in a scary-Master sort of tone, but there wasn’t really much of a need.  
He doubted it would bother the three people who walked through his door, anyway, when he saw them. 

Three of the only four of his students who were still alive.   
When all eight of them should have been happy and alive.   
Living.  
Breathing.  
Loving.   
Knowing each other. 

Not dying at the age of twelve by your brother’s accidental hand.

Not being strangled to death with air magic that you probably might’ve helped your murderer learn and practice.

Not bleeding out from a thousand different wounds on the ice. 

Not- whatever Constantine had done. To himself.   
To Callum.

And it was almost too painful,   
thinking Constantine’s name.   
Thinking Jericho’s name.  
Thinking Declan’s name.  
Thinking Sarah’s name. 

But it had to be done. Will had to think of them. Otherwise the world might forget.   
And that couldn’t happen.   
Never.   
If the world forgot them, it might repeat Constantine’s mistakes.  
The Fourth Mage War.  
Will might repeat his mistakes.   
And that couldn’t happen.

Tamara was the first person inside the room, looking around in surprise at how messy his office was. Which it was. Whenever Will told himself that today was going to be the day he cleaned everything out, burn the paperwork, mop the nasty stone floor, excise the ghosts, he always found himself a hour and a half later prank calling various random minor Assembly bureaucratic jerks on the ether phone, or going with Aaron, Tamara, and Call to fly over to places like New York City or DC on a hastily planned weekend trip, exploring odd rumors of things like reported sightings of a gigantic bronze dragon flying all around over the Bermuda Triangle or a chain of freak sewer gas incidents in Brooklyn. Tamara, as usual, walked in with her head held high, and her two long braids swinging down her perfectly straight back. And even though it mostly wasn’t his business, and he was perfectly okay with it, Will had recently seen her holding hands with Celia in the Refectory and Gallery. He tried to tell himself that it was just because he was her teacher, and that it was good to have a sense of open-mindedness, which was unfortunately something the Assembly, and by extension, the Magisterium and the Collegium, needed much more of.   
But it was too late to pretend he didn’t care. 

Even though he had cared,   
so much,  
twenty seven years ago. 

And they were all dead,   
except for Alastair.  
And Alastair might’ve wanted to be dead.  
Might’ve been, for all Will could figure out,   
for twelve years.  
Alastair didn’t talk to him once for   
twelve  
years  
after the  
Cold Massacre  
until Callum’s Iron Trial, and he was-  
And it was all Will’s fault. 

Will had championed the hope of a secret cave in the ice, where the young, old, weak, and sick, could hide out for hopefully as long as possible. Not a cave in the ice that Constantine knew of and where within two hours, that became the mage world’s equivalent of 9/11. Even worse, seeing how the proportion of people killed to people who knew them was so much greater. The East Coast government of mages was a pretty tight-knit group. Most everybody knew everybody. It was always like this, with only one or two kids in ten thousand on average possessing enough magic to pass the Iron Trial across the entire world. Which made the pain so much greater. So much sorrow and loss, so much more multiplied.   
And it all was Will’s fault. His idea. His choice. His fault.  
Everyone’s pain.  
Especially Will.  
Especially Alastair. 

Alastair, who had ‘sheltered’ his son in the worst way, turning him into a cynic who believed that mages and the Magisterium were monsters. Who hated the Magisterium himself, for the death of Sarah. Who probably hated Will for the death of Sarah. Who didn’t seem to know that Will hated himself for the death of Sarah. Hated himself for the death of Constantine. Hated himself for the death of Declan. Hated himself for the death of Jericho. Hated himself for the Third Mage War in entirety. Every single death was Will’s fault.   
Every drop of blood.

He might have as well have killed them himself, the good it would do them, the dead. Because of Will’s failure to be a teacher, the only thing Will had ever wanted to be. 

Alastair, who walked into Will’s office, with maybe not a happy grin and a wave, but- willingly, at least. That was a start, Will supposed. He had gradually started to see more and more of his former student, ever since Call’s Iron Trial and the memorable unbagging of Constantine’s head in his Copper Year. Mostly at explanations with the Assembly about what he had talked to Master Joseph about, and the dead woman, Tisdale. What her part was in it, especially being a mage who had actually, permanently, left the Magisterium. Her death was Will’s fault, too.  
Once, he had actually had a pretty long, actual, conversation with Alastair, at a Assembly party, two years ago, much more than a few words in front of four Copper Years that were all pretending to not be eavesdropping but were straining their ears anyway or a shouting match at the Hangar, being eagerly watched by the Rajavis and dozens of other people, before it got interrupted by a bit of action. Live action, in fact. If Call and Aaron hadn’t been there… 

Call was the last person to slightly limp inside, and shut the door behind him. Will was slightly disappointed and confused. Where was Aaron? Where was Havoc?   
Havoc had probably been left behind in his room, but Aaron was not really the type to stay behind. And neither of them were ever more than a few steps away from Callum. Havoc seemed to be mostly friendly to everyone, but it was undisputable that Call was his master. He seemed to always sleep on Callum’s head, seeing how Call went to breakfast looking exactly as if a gigantic wolf had slept (and, on occasion, drooled) on his black hair-but Will was bald. What did he know?  
Aaron was a bigger problem. The two Makars/counterweights were always together. Best friends.   
Constantine and Jericho had been best friends.  
Closer than brothers.   
Aaron and Call’s relationship seemed to almost be exactly like that. The same level of closeness. But it looked like to Will that there might be something more in their bond. Teachers notice more than students think. At least, Will hoped that was true. 

One time, he had hoped that it was truth that Constantine didn’t know where the cave was.   
One time, he hoped it was truth that Sarah lived.  
One time, he hoped it was truth that Joseph didn’t manage to get the Alkahest. 

Every

time, he was   
always  
wrong. 

All this ran through Will’s head in the few seconds it took for three of his four students to walk into his office. “Yes?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

A moment’s pause. Call took a limping step forward. “Master Rufus- We- I-think it’s WAY past time you know who I am.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Of COURSE Will wouldn’t tell anybody.  
It probably would’ve been a bit of fun to mess around and pretend he was completely insulted by all three of their concerns that he would,

but another one of his students was gone.   
And that wasn’t any fun at all.  
And it couldn’t be forgotten with a lie. 

And if he was truly honest with himself,   
he had suspected the bigger truth for quite a while.

A twelve year old.  
The Iron Trial.  
Maybe the first time ever that he had been close enough to Call to look him in the eyes.  
Eyes as gray, hard, and cynical as iron.  
A twelve year old.

Distinct  
Winter storm   
Quelling hurricane clouds  
gray  
only one other person he had ever known with eyes  
that exact  
precise   
shade  
temperament   
FEELING

Master Marcus used to have a saying: 

The eyes are the windows to the soul. 

soul. 

In the last few weeks before Master Marcus had been Devoured,  
his irises  
had been engulfed in   
fire.  
And Will had watched it happen.   
And Will had let it happen. 

They didn’t say that.  
But Will knew it was the truth.  
And Marcus was a monster now.  
If necessary, Will could not hesitate to   
put him down.

Constantine had accidentally killed his own brother.  
Will had let him be corrupted and separated away from the world by Joseph.  
Never given him a chance to heal.  
Just fester.  
He had killed ten thousand more after that.  
And then, somehow, somewhere, somewhen,  
at the Cold Massacre,  
or,  
thirteen years later,  
he had been   
amputated. 

And Will had watched it happen.  
And Will had let it happen.

Call’s soul had been sucked from his body and replaced with Constantine’s.  
For twelve years, he hadn’t had   
a single friend  
besides Alastair.  
And then he did.   
Tamara and Aaron.  
That much was obvious.   
He couldn’t lose them.  
Will knew exactly how he felt  
because he KNEW exactly how he felt.

Will would not let another one of his students die.   
It would not happen.  
He would not watch it happen.  
Because it would not happen.  
Will would not let it.  
It could not.

Aaron Stewart would not die.   
And Callum Hunt, not what Joseph wanted Call to be as Constantine, would  
live. 

Will would do everything he could to ensure that that would happen.


	5. Angels Never Arrived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
> 
> Aaron had always hated that song. 
> 
> When he could think, when there was more on the Earth than the only thing that seemed to have stayed faithful to Aaron his entire life- pain, he obsessed on how it didn’t even make sense. That, and Call.

Aaron didn’t know. He didn’t care. Whatever it was, it wasn’t there anymore. There was only   
Joseph’s gleeful, crooked, grin  
Looking at the black as the void, copper ingot-created burns  
On Aaron’s left arm  
His right  
His back  
so far.  
Only the fiery agony that existed only to   
burn Aaron to a crisp  
And to tempt Call.

Only Joseph’s obscure reasons that Aaron didn’t really care much about anymore.  
And Call.  
Who might have been the entirety of Joseph’s obscure reasons that Aaron didn’t really care much about anymore. His only thought was of relief from the agony. And of Call. The bursts of pain. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. When he COULD think, from a somehow lessening of the fires burning on his skin and the void trying to escape his nerves, it was an overwhelming worry for Call that took precedence, then annoyance at the way Joseph slowly, repetitively, ritualistically, was killing him. Up and down. Up and down.   
When there was nothing in Aaron’s head except for his bloodcurdling screams, and Call, he was glad for the movement. Up and down. Up and down. The ritual of it. He relied on the ritual of it. Something to focus on. So later, he didn’t lose focus. Cannot focus on anything but the pain. Cannot focus on anything but the ritual. Up and down.   
Up and down.   
Up and down.   
Up and down.   
Up and down… 

Joseph didn’t keep him chained anymore. There was no need. The agony the Alkahestized pound of copper was causing Aaron was as an effective shackle as anything else, and maybe even more so. And Joseph knew it. His own body was imprisoning him, even in the real-nightmare, his own chaos torturing his soul and body through the copper. It seemed like death to just lay on the stone plinth, six feet above the ground, because Joseph seemed to be dramatic that way, gasping like a fish out of water. Moving a fraction of an inch… Unbearable. Walther had made sure that the copper bar was almost exactly as painful as how Aaron imagined the Alkahest could be, but almost not able to kill him. 

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Aaron had always hated that song. 

When he could think, when there was more on the Earth than the only thing that seemed to have stayed true with Aaron his entire life, pain, he obsessed on how it didn’t even make sense. That, and Call. How could a leukemia patient, not dead from the disease, but very weak from the chemo, and at least twenty thousand dollars in debt from the treatment costs, be considered stronger? Or a victim in a car crash, completely paralyzed from the neck down? They wouldn’t come out of the hospital two months later in a motorized wheelchair, almost dead, but alive, feeling stronger now than when they had stepped into that car? They wouldn’t be glad they needed to go to the corner store for a bottle of milk, back in five minutes honey, because they were stronger now.  
It didn’t work like that.   
Not physically.  
Definitely not emotionally.   
Neither.  
Never.   
Aaron obsessed on the images of his blond-haired, green-eyed father nearly die in jail because he somehow, somehow, got his hands on a container of rubbing alcohol and try to drink it. He DIDN’T see him the next day in the jail’s gym, benching 260 pounds and swearing to never drink again, not even the weak, crappy version of Coke the prison gave out once every six months for ‘good behavior.’ Aaron only watched, his face smooshed through the cold iron bars, at the age of eight, as his father’s bloodshot green eyes stared up at the mildewed cell ceiling, not flickering, not moving, not recognizing his own son.

Aaron had bar-shaped bruises on his face when he woke up the next morning   
in his seventh foster home, having run away from the sixth to the state prison the moment he read the ‘confidential’ email from the state to Chuck, his sixth ‘dad.’ 

In the few seconds that the world wasn’t just fire and ice and stinging, killing, black hot copper, he only saw his father’s green eyes and blond hair. Exactly like his own. When he could see things. When there was an Aaron, not just the uncontrollable roiling darkness and the terrible crying pain and Call’s face plastered against the transparent facets of the world. 

Aaron was determined not to end up as his father, ‘loving’ in a terrible way, in a prison, completely agonized, staring up at the ceiling, completely losing his will to live.   
Wait.  
That was exactly what he was doing.  
The rocky ceiling, completely overgrown with lichen, swam in and out of Aaron’s vision, sometimes being an awful, painful red, tinting it, or the cold, warm darkness washing over him, but now symbolizing Joseph’s preparation to reform and create again the real-nightmare every twenty four hours and bring him and Call to it. It had been maybe- fifty two hours since Aaron had been stolen? Yesterday, or what had counted as it, he had sensed Call being sucked there for a single moment before being forced back- woken up- what- Tamara? But Aaron was absolutely, totally, maybe, sure that Call would be there this time, forced to see Aaron’s agony. Forced to move closer, so much closer, to being Constantine through Aaron’s pain. It would be absolutely Aaron’s fault, then, if Call dissolved, completely stopped being Call, and if the Enemy of Death emerged from whatever mess his soul was in, like a parasitic worm unfurling from a spider. Aaron’s fault, like it was mostly his father’s fault Aaron was who he was today.   
Which consisted of a thickly pasted, hard to dissolve crust of apparent ‘niceness’ on the outside, a default smile Aaron slapped on his face because he never wanted to be the jerk who swore at their toddler son at the same time he was teaching him to hotwire a stolen car, the only thing he ever really would, besides all the do-nots Aaron would pick up from context, later, like- don’t strangle your girlfriend to death, especially not while your two year old son watches in a corner, over a darker, harder, thinner layer that was his defensiveness about himself, his past, and his needing to protect and love Call and Tamara. Maybe even Jasper and Celia. All stretched over a core of darkness and pain, and maybe one of Call’s rare smiles, that housed all his dreams and demons and was the perfect complement to Aaron’s chaos magic, which felt sometimes, that when he used it, it fed his dark and let it crack the surface of plastered smiles and a few real laughs, thrusting forward sadness and a deep rage- rage at the world, at his father, the mages of the Magisterium, Master Joseph, and a irrational tiny bit even at Call, Tamara too- and a maybe even deeper exhaustion, that most of the time Aaron didn’t even know he had.  
But he did. 

And because of Aaron’s pain, Aaron’s agony, Aaron’s weakness, Joseph was going to make sure that Call burned down the world and let Constantine out.   
And even through the haze of flashing lightning and memories of bloody, horrible, silences that were merged by terror-stricken thoughts of Verity Torres’ death and all the agonizing deaths of all the other Makars, Aaron had no reason to doubt his resolve.   
No reason to doubt Joseph’s ability, definitely no reason to doubt his motives to ensure Constantine would destroy the world, cause almost eight billion people pain that combined was worse than anything Aaron could experience, could comprehend, could imagine, because Call didn’t want him to keep hurting. Like Constantine and Jericho. Call would want to bring Aaron back.  
And Joseph had made it easy.   
Not bringing your brother back from the dead.  
Back from the void.  
Abyss.  
Bottomless pit.  
Nothing and everything.  
Chaos wants to devour. 

Not that far out of reach.  
Just saying “yes”.  
A simple hostage trade. Call for Aaron. Not that hard, now, was it?   
Joseph had made sure Aaron wasn’t dead yet.   
Yet.   
Almost. But not yet.   
And it might,   
WOULD,  
be easier for Call to crack in two, if he saw Aaron in the agony he was in right now, lying on the stone. So Call couldn’t be allowed to.

Joseph didn’t even keep him chained anymore. Aaron’s own body was as good a shackle as any.   
Just like his father’s addictions, even in prison, was his. 

But Aaron would force himself to have some of the self control his father never did.  
Maybe he was different.  
He didn’t really know.  
The pounding in his head and the numbness slithering up the burning in Aaron’s toes and legs made it hard to think.   
Even more impossible to move.  
He had to try, though. 

So slowly, agonizingly, owwwwwaaaaowwwhelpscreamingtillhislungsburstCall, every nerve in Aaron’s body screaming, begging, pleading for him to STOP MOVING, NOW, a quarter of a fraction of an inch at an indefinite time, Aaron jerked off the cold stone platform.

And fell to the ground, curled in a tight ball, trying to hide from the world.  
Just try to be like a hedgehog.   
But no matter what he wanted to do, other things had to happen. 

Aaron had to fall.   
Six feet down. 

The fall was almost-   
nice. 

Until the world was colored awful flashes of black and red and white as Aaron hit the gravel on his left side- Joseph’s first unwilling subject of the Alkahest-related ‘experimentation.’ He just wanted to lie there and scream for a long, long time- but somehow, even though every inch of his skin was in whitehot torture, Aaron forced himself to stand up. The agony might’ve made him delirious as he stared slowly, almost not comprehendingly, at the gravel and dirt of the floor, the mossy walls, and up at the high, rocky, cavern ceiling, but even as the corners of Aaron’s vision darkened around him, as Joseph rushed through an naturally formed, bioluminescent doorway, as all his half-realized ideas of escape and saving

Call

were thrown down the void, he really didn’t think so. Even as the Chaos- ridden put manacles on Aaron’s chafing, screaming, bare ankles, even as bitter disappointment, anger, and hopelessness briefly overwhelmed the all-consuming feeling known as pain, some insane instinct of where Aaron was, how Joseph was able to bypass all of the Magisterium’s wards, impenetrable by anything, made that way by a little bit of magic, and for the most part, solid rock, in creating the real-nightmare, and taking Aaron and Call rushed into his brain. Even as he came to that conclusion, planet Earth stopped turning at all, the entire universe turned blacker than the void, and, completely alone in the Milky Way- who was Call again?, the pain overtook Aaron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Angst. A lot of angst. (why can't I write something HAPPY for once?) Tho I suppose focusing on creating fanfiction angst rather than dwelling on the ending of TBK is better for my health. *SCREAMING* I'm dead now, I suppose. Dead about three times over. Thank. You. Very. Little. CC. And. HB.   
> I'm sorry for how long it took me to update, but with school and stuff- swamped. I promise, though, that I literally just finished typing this chapter out last night. 
> 
> As always, my tumblr is @amayzingmagic36 :D


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